Page 49 of First Star I See Tonight (Chicago Stars 8)

The kitchen smelled of fresh-baked goodness from the two wedges of chocolate cake sitting out on china plates. Through one doorway, she saw a set of stairs, through the other, a turn-of-the-century dining room complete with a steam radiator, dark floral rug, oak dining table, and sideboard displaying china figurines. These were the old lighthouse keeper’s quarters.

Coop introduced her as Ingrid, his massage therapist.

“Piper Dove,” she said. “I’m actually Mr. Smith’s sobriety coach.”

“Well, God bless you,” Marilyn said with a cheery smile. “There’s no shame in admitting you need help, Mr. Smith.”

Piper patted his arm. “Exactly what I’ve been telling him.”

The bad mood that had prompted his little outburst in the car seemed to have faded because he didn’t call her out. She, on the other hand, was still miffed by his put-down. This was a new side of herself she didn’t like.

Marilyn led them into a back hallway, up three steps to a landing, then another three steps—another landing—and into a square hallway with five doors—three to the bedrooms, one to a bathroom, and another into the light tower.

“You’re the only guests tonight, so you won’t have to share the bathroom.”

One of “Mr. Smith’s” eyebrows went up. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might have to share a bathroom with the hoi polloi. She, on the other hand, would have appreciated another set of guests for company.

The rooms were homey—wooden headboards, pretty quilts, old-fashioned glass globe lamps, and more lace curtains. Framed black-and-white photographs of ore boats gone-by hung on the walls.

Their hostess, who’d been giving them a minihistory of the lighthouse, pointed out the flashlights in each room for guests who wanted to explore the light tower. “There’s a lighthouse ghost, but most guests don’t see him.” She moved out into the hallway. “If you wouldn’t mind, lock the front door after I leave.”

She was leaving? Piper wasn’t exactly sure why that bothered her. Well, she was sure, but . . . Even with the town only a few blocks away, the lighthouse felt isolated, like a deserted island. With no grown-up around to chaperone.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” Marilyn said. “Breakfast is at eight thirty.” She disappeared down the steps, and a few moments later, the front door shut behind her.

Mom! Don’t you know you shouldn’t leave us kids alone?

He’d set down his duffel, a simple action that burned up all the air in the bedroom. Because of her maddening reaction to what he’d said in the car, she needed to get out of here right away.

“You’re skittish,” he said as she turned to the door.

She whipped back around. “I am not. I’m hungry.”

He dropped his eyelids to half-mast. “Don’t expect me to do anything about that. I already told you. I’m not interested.”

“For cake! I’m hungry for that chocolate cake she left us. Jeez, what is wrong with you?” She bristled with scorn, even as she resisted a compulsion to whip her sweater over her head, rip off her bra, and see how disinterested he’d be in that.

She headed downstairs and retrieved her piece of cake from the kitchen. As she ate, she passed through the dining room into a living room that looked as though it belonged to someone’s cozy great-grandmother. The wing chair and blue damask couch had white doily antimacassars across their backs. An old stereopticon and a pot of African violets sat on top of a glass-front bookcase. There was even a spider plant hanging in the window. She imagined the lighthouse keeper and his wife sitting here at night in a time before electronic distractions. They’d be reading, maybe sewing, talking about the next day’s weather. Then mounting the stairs to their bedroom . . .

She grabbed the ship’s log from the coffee table and flipped it open. The log invited guests to assume the duties of the lighthouse keeper during their stay: raising and lowering the flag in the morning and evening, entering the names of the ships that came into the harbor, and checking the beacon twice a day.

Coop’s cake still sat on the kitchen counter. She set her empty dish in the sink and went upstairs to her room. She changed into her black plaid pajama bottoms and Chicago Bears T-shirt, but she wasn’t ready for bed. As long as she was here, why not get into the spirit of the place? She fetched her flashlight from the top of the bureau, thrust her feet into flip-flops, and crossed the hallway to play lighthouse keeper.

It was icy cold and dark inside the tower, with not even a trickle of illumination from the big lens above penetrating the thick blackness. She flicked on her flashlight, sending eerie shadows looming up the plastered walls. A narrow staircase with treads painted a dark maroon led to the lantern room high above. A small window on the landing pointed toward the harbor, but fog had crept in since they’d arrived, and she could make out only the dimmest structural outline of the iron ore docks.

She began to climb the stairs. The chill penetrated her T-shirt and pajama bottoms. She curled her toes to keep her flip-flops from slapping the wooden stair treads. The creepy shadows, the darkness, the isolation . . . It was deliciously sinister. She felt as if she’d slipped into one of the mysteries she’d devoured as a kid. Piper Dove and the Secret of the Lighthouse Murders.

She reached another tiny landing, this one with a round porthole. Still no light visible from the big lens above. She flipped off her flashlight to gaze through the porthole out toward the lake, but the fog was too thick to see anything.

She heard a noise below.

The click of a door opening. The stealthy sound of a foot hitting the bottom tread.

The lighthouse murderer had followed her here.

She knew his identity. He knew she knew his identity. He couldn’t afford to let her leave here alive.

No one to help.

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